The Gloves
by lascia
Summary: The Lady of Winterfell invites her faithful friend to walk with her in the Godswood. Rated for swearing.


He stood by the Iron Gate that guarded the path to the Godswood, flexing his fingers inside his new leather gloves. Lined with rabbit fur and rubbed soft with dubbin the gloves were snug and warm on his hands. He admired the workmanship and was quietly pleased with the pair though puzzled he was at their appearance on his bedside table the evening before.

He could guess at who he should thank for the gift, but he could not allow himself to be certain.

Embroidered on the back of each of the dark gloves in fine yellow thread was a dog – or was it a wolf – mouth open in a snarl, eyes alert. As he stood tall in the cold, distracted by the puzzle of the embellishment, he did not hear soft footsteps approach in the snow.

"Good morning, Sandor."

He was too well trained to show his surprise at her arrival. Folding his arms across his chest, hiding the object of his distraction from view, he nodded at the Lady of Winterfell.

"It's a bloody cold morning, little bird. A man could freeze his balls off standing out here."

"Ah, but not his hands", Sansa smiled.

"My hands will keep, with thanks to you. The embroidery..." Clegane knew not how to continue, but Sansa understood.

"I had some spare thread and a great desire to try my hand at leather. You are wearing my first attempt at embroidering anything other than handkerchiefs, nightclothes and napkins so please forgive the imperfections."

She had purposefully avoided the true question of dog or wolf and he had no courage to pursue it, though the manner in which she stared at him gave him the feeling that she had hoped he would. Instead, he grunted and nodded towards the Godswood.

"It's been a long time since you've asked me to guard your visit to your gods. Are your noble suitors weary of the cold or do you miss chirping nonsense to your old dog?"

To his surprise she ignored his teasing, reaching instead for his arm and guiding him through the Iron Gate. "I asked you here not to guard me but to walk with me, as my friend, and to talk with me."

He allowed her his arm and held his tongue as they walked along the path. Sansa chatted, sometimes laughing as she told of a kitchen mishap or the trials of a newly born foal, never questioning or waiting for a response from her companion. Sandor breathed deeply, taking pleasure in the sting of the icy air as it cleared through his lungs. He listened, nodding at times but mostly looking forward as they walked further into the heart of the Godswood. As Sansa discussed the construction of a new well Sandor allowed his mind to wander to the morning's events.

Sansa had sent her handmaiden to him that morning with an instruction to wait by the Iron Gate. The young serving girl had interrupted his dressing and was rewarded with his bare skin and clear arousal. She blushed and gasped but did not look away. He had wanted to explain that his body was not responding to her but to _her_, to the dream of _her_, the memory of _her_ voice and _her_ skin and _her_ auburn hair. Instead he growled at the young girl and pushed her against the wall, demanding she speak. As she blurted out her Lady's invitation, Sandor noticed that her eyes had widened not with fear but with excitement.

"I could help with yer clothes' milord, if you desire. I've dressed a man before... an' undressed, too."

He could have taken her against the wall and found a moment of peace in the quick release but his mind could not shake the images of his sleep.

"Is Lady Stark aware that she has a whore in her service, touching her fine things and braiding her hair with tainted hands?"

The girl started. "Pardons, milord! I... please, milord, I meant no offence. My Lady has no need to hear of this, please milord."

Sandor bared his teeth at the maid before shoving her away from him. "Tell your Lady that her faithful dog will obey. Be gone!"

He had dressed quickly, angrily, after the girl had scampered off. The light lust he had woken with had passed and was replaced with an emptiness that was great and reaching. In his haste to leave his chambers he almost forgot the gloves which had been carefully placed on the table by his bed. He had snatched them up before stalking off to meet with the woman of his dream.

"Sandor?"

Sansa had stopped walking and was looking at him with concern. Sandor struggled to focus, his thoughts caught on the emptiness of his morning.

"My mind was elsewhere, little bird. Continue your chirping."

"I had asked a question of you."

He sighed. "Then ask it again."

"Are we friends?" Sansa withdrew her hand from his arm and stood before him. Her eyes were wide and determined, her head held high.

Sandor snorted in the cold. "Friends, girl? If you wish it, then so be it. Friends... why not? I've been guard and maester and cook and slave to you at times so why not friend as well."

Sansa blinked, collecting her words on her tongue before speaking softly.

"I would not force my company upon you. If you wish it, return to your day. I'll continue alone. I have much to think about."

Sandor laughed. "Easy, little bird, cool your head. Truth be told, you're the only friend I have and you know it. Now keep walking before we fucking freeze." The tall man offered his arm once again and nodded when it was accepted without argument. He led the frowning girl further down the snowy path.

"Speak, then."

"Hmm?"

"You've much to think about, you said. Tell me and I'll listen."

Sansa ducked her head as if to hide behind her fur-lined cloak.

"I was thinking of marriage."

Sandor snorted. "Nothing new, then. How many suitors is it now? Green boys, the lot of them, except that old goat Lamprey. Sort of man to make my sword hand itch."

"I was thinking of _your_ marriage."

The soft thump of snow dropping from tree branches chased the silence that followed Sansa's statement. _Too well trained_, thought Sandor as he continued to walk. He forced out a laugh, sharp and staccato in the white quiet.

"Fuck me dead if I get married. The cold is harming your good sense, my Lady. We return now."

"I'd like to walk further, Ser."

She dared him with azure eyes to respond, knowing full well that her use of formal address, however incorrect and uncomfortable, would persuade him. He grimaced in response.

"As I was saying, I was thinking of your marriage. It is time, Sandor. You've given me.. you've given _Winterfell_ so much and have taken so little in return. You are still young, you are strong and honest and fierce with a blade and fit to head a family of your own. I want to thank you for your friendship. I want you to be happy."

It was Sandor's turn to stop and pull back.

"What do I care for happiness? I am content enough here. All I ask for is work to fill my day, a skin of the best and a place by your side." Sandor's shoulders softened. "I've never hoped for a wife, little bird. Reward me if it pleases you by letting me do my job and protect you, even after you marry one of your bloody heart-faced noble boys."

Sansa smiled, her soft lips thin. "And what if you disapprove of my choice of husband? Would you stand quietly by my door at night? Would you guard my children and obey my husband as easily as you obey me?"

"Need you ask?" Sandor's voice hummed low and strong in the cold air. His eyes stared at the beauty before him, strong and sure.

A moment passed; a breath, a heartbeat, and then Sansa reached for the hand of her old friend.

"I have chosen my husband. My brothers have given their blessing. It is near official, only the man I have chosen has yet to hear the news."

He wanted to pull back, he wanted to fight and growl and spill blood on the white snow that reflected the harsh truth of her words back into his eyes but instead he stood, cold and tall and quiet, staring.

"I should congratulate you."

"But you won't?"

"Does a man cheer a bird who accepts a cage?"

"I've been caged before. It bothered you little."

"It near _killed_ me." In the quiet, the hiss of anger in his voice resonated. He stepped back, once, twice, before storming towards the heart of the Godswood.

The sky opened and snow fell.

Some time passed before Sandor heard the soft swish of Sansa's gown and the light step of her feet approaching. Head hanged, he leaned with both his hands on the heart-tree as if to push it over. He felt her clear eyes upon him but he could not look up as he spoke.

"Every single day I fought myself, stopping myself from reaching for my sword each time one of those fucking Gold Cloaks broke your skin. I despise the weakness in me that accepted it, that did nothing. I've tried since to open the cage door Sansa, your fucking gods know I've tried."

She reached for him in the cold. "Sandor..."

"What has he offered your family? Land? Gold? Men? Are you pleased with the price that has been set, my Lady?" Sansa could not ignore the sneer in his voice.

"I love him."

At that, he turned to look at her, the fingers of one hand balled into a fist against the tree. Sandor's eyes were wide and unblinking as he stared at the willowy girl before him. He saw in her eyes, in her mouth and her hands that she spoke truthfully – that she believed herself to be in love.

Sandor swallowed, his mouth dry. "Then I congratulate you. Perhaps this time you'll be happy in your cage."

"It won't be a cage if the man I have chosen returns my love."

"Any of those men would love you. They trip over themselves at the sight of you, drooling idiots." Sandor dragged his fist hard down the tree before stepping closer to Sansa, who smiled at him.

"They love me for my property and title, Sandor. If I were someone else, a girl without Winterfell and the Stark name, I would not be greeted by a hall of eager suitors." She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. After a measured pause she spoke again, softly. "If I lost all of this, I would hope to find just one man waiting by my hearth and that one man is enough for me, if he'll have me."

Sandor could feel the warmth radiating off of the maiden before him. It took all of his strength not to wrap his arms around her and whisper an appeal in her ear. As if she knew his thoughts and wished to calm him, Sansa took the hand of the warrior before her, smiling.

"You have not asked me about the man I have chosen."

Sandor grimaced. "It means little to me."

"I would have thought that my sworn shield would be interested in the character of my future husband. Do you care not that he could be a killer?"

Sandor stared at the small hand that covered his own. "All men are killers, little bird. As to the character of the man, I trust your judgement. You've seen enough of this shitty world to be able to tell the difference between a good man and not."

Sansa grinned. "Then you accept my choice, regardless of who he is?"

"Aye girl, though don't think I won't run him through if need be."

Laughing, Sansa stood on the tips of her toes and wrapped her slender arms around Sandor's neck. She pressed a soft kiss against his scarred cheek. "You've brought me such happiness, Sandor. I hope I can bring the same to you when we are wed."

It was not the cold that caused Sandor to freeze in his boots. Stumbling backwards, he pushed the Lady of Winterfell away from him as though her very touch burned through to his skin. "Are you fucking mad?"

Unperturbed, Sansa continued to smile. "Now let us not trudge along this weary path, Sandor. You can shout at me all you like but it will not sway me. I love you. I have loved you for such a time and have wanted to shout it from the tower tops but could not for fear that you would laugh at me. But I'm not afraid of that now. Laugh all you want because I believe that you love me too, in your way. Perhaps it does not fill your heart to bursting like mine but I mind little. I have enough love for both of us."

Nonplussed, Sandor could do little but gape at the faerie before him. The world around him ceased to exist as the words that gushed from Sansa's mouth filled his head. _She wants to marry me_. Sansa quietened and once more took the hands of her old friend.

"These gloves... I had thought long on what to embellish them with but came up with nothing. So I started to sew. Before I knew it I had finished. It matters not if it is dog or wolf that adorns your hands, so long as they are holding my own. Please understand, Sandor."

As the soft snow fell Sandor studied the small hands encircling his own. Through the leather he swore he could feel a fluttering of a pulse, a tiny beat that belonged to the one treasure he had longed desired but never hoped to gain. He knew not what to say and feared that when words left his mouth they would be wrong, harsh and cruel and toxic. In the quiet he near whispered, "You're too good for me, Sansa. A dog isn't made for fine things."

She kissed him in reply. He felt her warm lips press gently against his own, her hand sliding up his chest to caress his neck under his cloak. She kissed him for seconds, for minutes, for a lifetime, her hot breath dancing with his own, and her soft lashes ticking his skin.

As she released him he knew the battle had been lost. Sansa beamed at her loved one, her eyes wide and true in the snowfall.

"Marry me, Sandor."

In the white peace of the Godswood, the loyal dog obeyed his little bird's command with a kiss.


End file.
